Remember, Regret, Recover
by Ciara in cotton socks
Summary: In the aftermath of 'On My Way', the glee club hold vigil over their fallen comrade and reflect on remembered regrets.


They sit in silence in the grim, gloomy waiting room. Nobody speaks, but Rachel's stifled sobs seem to bounce back off the bland cream walls and roar in their ears, an echo of their shared grief. Blaine strokes Kurt's trembling hands and Finn paces anxiously, his actions mimicked by Rory, who looks ready to throw up. Like Rachel, Tina cries, but she does so silently. The tears stream down her cheeks in silver rivers while she leans gratefully into Mike's steady embrace. The dancer's gaze is unfocused and he barely seems aware of the rest of the glee club clustered in the room with them. Mercedes cranes her neck in an attempt to peer down the corridor, as though her determined stare will bring a doctor or a nurse or Mrs Fabray striding down the hallway towards them to tell them that their girl is fine.

It doesn't.

Beside her, Sam hovers uncertainly. He looks ready to faint, which is one step above Sugar who was taken by exhaustion two hours ago and now lies, blinking sleepily, with her head in Artie's lap. It's a mark of how grave the situation is that Rory doesn't take exception to this behaviour. Santana sits in the chair next to them, knees drawn up to her chest as though trying to hold herself together through the insanity. She does not cry- she _never_ cries- but she is biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. In the midst of this life-or-death horror, the natural image to place next to her is that of a scared, confused Brittany S. Pierce, her arms locked around Santana in a way intended to comfort both parties.

They don't.

Instead, in that curious way of hers, the blonde dancer has managed to gravitate towards the person in the room who needs her most. She sits quietly and places her hand in his and leans her head on his shoulder and lets him pretend that he's comforting her when secretly they both know that he's the one finding solace here.

"Guys, you can't stay here all night," Mr Schue pipes up, finally shattering the suffocating silence. "Mrs Fabray said she'd call me if there was any change, and I promise I'll let you all know as soon as she does."

Nobody bothers to dignify his comment with a response. Puck doesn't even spare him a glance before resuming his patting of Brittany's bare arm.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

The first time he spoke to her properly, one-to-one, outside of the choir room, was in the library. He'd been freaking out because his parents' internet connection was down and he hadn't spoken to them for days, and Santana and what seemed like every other kid in school were on his case and he had a test coming up in American History and he just couldn't seem to make it sink in.

She'd sat herself down gracefully at the study desk next to his, carrying a pile of books intended for some daunting, faraway senior English assignment. She'd shot him the briefest of smiles, an acknowledgment of recognition, before bending her head low and beginning to read, drumming her fingers absentmindedly along the length of a yellow highlighter.

The next time she'd looked up was when he screwed up a page of pointless notes and hurled it at the bin- _trash can_- and missed by several feet. She gave a little sigh, closed her heavy textbook with a 'thump' and turned to face him.

"Alright new kid, what's wrong?"

And he told her, and she rolled her eyes at the homesickness and the Santana-ness, but she offered to tutor him until he'd caught up in History. He got a B+ on that test.

He remembers now that he never asked her how her English assignment went, or even what it was about.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

She never really talked to her as much as she talked to the rest of the girls in glee club. She's not sure why; maybe it's because she was always so perfect, so unattainably immaculate. Or maybe it's because she could- _can_- be downright frightening when she wants to.

They did speak properly once, and it seems decades ago now. They were in the girls' bathroom near the choir room and she was going through that ridiculous phase of dressing like a gothic cheerleader to impress Mike. Looking back, it was laughable. But Mike was the perfect boyfriend- handsome, kind, popular- and she figured he needed the perfect girlfriend. And everybody knows cheerleaders are the ideal girlfriends for football players.

She'd come out of one of the stalls to find the other girl reapplying lipgloss from a shiny golden tube. She washed her hands quickly and offered a tense, hesitant smile. She never quite knew which Quinn she was going to get.

"You look pathetic," the other girl drawled, true to form, and she felt her heart sink. Without a word, she turned to leave but Quinn's words followed her. "I've known Mike a long time, you know."

"Yeah," she replied dumbly. "Since grade school, right?"

"Preschool actually. He's a great guy. Genuine, and that's hard to come by in Lima."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that I know Mike. And I know that the reason he likes you, the reason he likes you more than any Cheerio he's been with, is because of who you are. He likes the showtunes and the showchoir and the dressing up as a vampire to extort Figgins."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Mike was with all those Cheerios because it's what the jocks in this town do. He's with you because he loves how different you are. You should too. It's... it takes a lot of balls in a place like this, balls most people don't have. Me included. And by the way, you look like a badly-drawn Japanese cartoon character."

"And you sound like Santana," she'd countered, but in her free period she'd driven home and changed into her regular clothes. Then they'd sung Florence and the Machine in glee club, and at some point she'd found herself dancing next to Quinn and they'd shared a knowing smile.

But, she remembers, she never asked her what she'd be, if she had the balls.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

He doesn't remember much from Rachel's house party, and what he does remember is pretty hazy. But he knows beyond reasonable doubt that at some point he ended up plopped in front of the washing machine, watching Mr and Mr Berry's colours whirling around and around.

"You'll make yourself sick, you know."

He spun around to find her swaying over him and a sloppy grin spread across his face.

"HI QUINN!" he'd slurred loudly, and even to his own ears that hadn't sounded right. "Your hair's pretty."

And she'd smiled and flopped down beside him and gulped down some water from the tall glass clutched in her hand. She'd cast a scathing glower towards the sofa, where Sam and Santana were playing tonsil hockey. "Glad someone thinks so."

After that it gets a bit hazy, but he's pretty sure they spent about an hour telling each other how brilliant they were, even if stupid football players with stupid beestung lips and stupid GAP workers with stupider hair didn't seem to realise it. At some point he thinks he started to feel sick, because he thinks she started to feed him some of her water and stroked his hair like his mom used to when he was home sick from school. And then he thinks he might have passed out, because the next thing he knew she was nudging him and sitting him up against the side of the washing machine and telling him she was going to find Kurt to take him home.

"Noooo," he'd moaned, but it was just an incomprehensible string of vowels. "Don' tell Kurt, don'... don' wann him t'know... t'know 'm a mess..."

"Honestly, if you two don't get it together soon, I'm going to have those Warblers lock you in a room together until one of you makes a move."

And she'd ruffled his hair and got to her feet and stumbled away to find Kurt, and Kurt had brought him home and held him when he threw up in the bathroom.

And, he remembers now as he strokes Kurt's hand with the pad of his thumb, he never thanked her for taking care of him.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

She was the first girl he ever loved. People say your first love is special, and he knows now that they're right. In hindsight, that's probably why losing her in the first place hurt so much. It's probably why he spent so much time being angry.

He remembers now that he spent so long being angry at her he never told her how special the good times were to him.

He wishes he had.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

She hasn't been a part of New Directions for very long, and she's still not entirely sure she likes the whole island-of-misfit-toys thing. Call it obnoxious, call it Asbergers, but she likes things pretty and shiny and perfect. That's why, when she first transferred to McKinley, and those glee club idiots failed to recognise her outstanding talents, she figured the perfect extracurricular for her was the Cheerios.

So she had gone to her daddy and pleaded her case, and he'd hired her a new personal trainer and bought her the cute little outfits the girls wore in Bring it On (the good one, with Kirsten Dunst, not that inferior Hayden Panetierre girl) and she'd even bought hair elastics, something she'd sworn she'd never do after Ms Rodgers her third grade teacher teased her about looking like Pippi Longstocking. She'd put on her tube socks and done her yoga poses on the Wii and eaten bananas and porridge and all those other high-energy foods and made her way to school and she was standing outside the gym ready to bust out her funky moves when a voice came from the shadows.

"Don't do it."

"Jesus?" she'd whispered. "Buddha? Justin Bieber?"

"Try Fabray," the voice said, and a body appeared along with it. A frightening spectre straight from the graveyard, complete with dodgy piercings and an even dodgier dye job. "Quinn Fabray."

"Stay back!" she'd squeaked, trying to remember the karate positions her trainer had taught her. "I've got a can of Mace in my purse!"

"Relax Powerpuff," the girl drawled as she strutted towards her. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just going to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life. Turn around and walk away."

cheerleader who got turfed out when she got pregnant!"

"The one and only," the other girl had said with a shrug. "Look, I know what you're thinking. Who wouldn't want to be a Cheerio if the alternative is-" she gestured from her head right down to her steel toe-capped boots. "-this. But I'm telling you, being a Cheerio is worse. It eats away at your soul, at your mind, until all that's left is the need to be popular and be pretty and be thin, and sure that sounds great, but the thing is... the thing is, when you're at the top of the high school foodchain there's an awfully long way to fall. And you _will_ fall, eventually. Think about that before you go in parading yourself in front of the dragon lady and her little lapdog."

And with that the pink-haired girl had strode away without a backwards glance. She'd been left facing those double doors and she'd heard a yell from inside, followed by a scream, and she'd turned on her heel and walked away, pulling out her cell phone as she went.

"Daddy's assistant? Tell Daddy to get Shelby Corcoran on the phone, like, yesterday."

She remembers now that she never thanked her for stopping her from ruining the rest of her high school life.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

He likes to think he looks out for all the kids in glee club, as much as he can. He used to think he was good at spotting when they were down, when they were upset, when something wasn't right. He used to think it was enough to provide a shoulder to cry on and a song appropriate to their particular situation. He used to think he'd done his best for her.

But now he remembers all the times he spotted something, only to push it to the back of his mind in favour of 'more pressing matters', and he can't help wondering. If he'd done something different, something more, would the chain of events have been different?

He remembers all those times she worried him, and he regrets more than anything the fact that he didn't reach out more effectively.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

For a long time, she didn't like her much. She thought she was stuck up and pretentious and everything she disliked in life. Come on, who doesn't eat tots?

But then the pretence had been shattered and life had come rushing in and suddenly she was a whole different Quinn. Lonely. Frightened. Young. She thinks of the night she'd come to stay at her house. It was late and she'd just gone to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Padding back upstairs, she heard quiet sobbing coming from the spare bedroom.

She hadn't really known what to do, but going on instinct and thinking about what Kurt would do, she had eased the door open a fraction and poked her head into the room to see the beautiful blonde sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clamped protectively over her barely-there bump and crying real, ugly tears. She coughed to announce her presence and Quinn had turned, a deer caught in the headlights. She made no attempt to hide her tears.

"Quinn-"

"What am I going to do?" she'd whispered, so tired and scared and broken, and before either of them knew what they were doing they were wrapped up in a wild, tearful hug. She had no idea how long it lasted, and when it finished the other girl had swiped furiously at her eyes and made her swear that what had just happened would never go beyond that room.

She hadn't, but she remembers now that she'd wanted to tell Quinn that she knew she'd make the right choice for that baby.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

They used to be inseparable when they were together. Countless dates- ice-skating, bowling, dinner at BreadstiX, dinner not at BreadstiX, even those godawful salsa lessons. Even more countless days and nights spent curled up on the sofa or on his bed or in the park.

But weirdly, their best moments were after they had broken up. Those sad, miserable days holed up in that crappy motel room with Stevie and Stacy alternating between bouncing off the walls and whining, when she would waltz in with cupcakes or a movie or something equally comforting and, for a few short hours at least, make it seem like things had the possibility of getting better. She was so good with the kids, better than he could have hoped to be when he was constantly exhausted from a combination of school and delivering pizzas for a pittance. She could make them smile with that glowing loveliness of hers, and he could tell she would make a wonderful mother some day.

He remembers now that Stacy had made a sparkle-coated thank you card for him to give to her, and it kills him that he can't think where he put it.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

Heights have always posed a problem for him. People talk about 'how hard it must be' to be in a chair, and how 'you're _sooooo_ brave', but they neglect the little things. They think to petition for ramps up to buildings and disabled toilets, but they forget about the fact that their cafeteria trays are a disaster waiting to happen, or that they have to aim a hell of a lot lower if they want him to stand a chance of catching that football.

The library is one of the things that really irks him. He likes books, likes reading and immersing himself in the drama-free world of facts and figures, but what kills him is that most of the books he wants- the general knowledge books, or quiz books, or math texts, are high up on the shelves that lie beyond his reach. He knows people see him in the library, stretching and straining in vain, but it's like none of them want to come and intervene. Like they think paraplegia is contagious.

His relationship with Quinn has never been particularly close, but that's one thing she always did when they happened to be in the library at the same time. She always brought the books down to his level.

He remembers now the time he saw her poring over her Trig textbook in a corner of the library, looking lost, and he wishes he had extended the same helping hand that she did.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

They met for the first time in junior high. She taught her what all the numbers on that little sheet of paper meant. And that the little sheet of paper was called a timetable.

She remembers now that she meant to give her one of her new unicorn erasers to say thank you, but she forgot and then Lord Tubbington sold them to fund his crack addiction.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

Not many people at McKinley share his passion for fashion, but she's always had something of a flair when it comes to clothes. Put-together, but with a certain edge.

So he'd been pleasantly surprised to be asked for his opinion on her dress for junior prom. He'd figured, of her anal-retentive campaign for prom queen was anything to go by, that she'd have chosen her dress the first week of freshman year. However, he could never pass up an opportunity to go dress shopping and so he'd accepted her invitation without skipping a beat.

"Why did you ask me here?" he'd asked, studiously scrutinising a canary yellow gauze number masquerading as 'elegant and classy buttercup'. "I mean, I could look at designer dresses all day long but..."

She had looked up from the Barbie pink number she'd been examining and shrugged a little. "I didn't have anybody else. In case you haven't noticed, I've been doing a bang up job of alienating people lately."

"Well, you are kind of a bitch sometimes," he'd mused, and she had laughed softly. "Even if it is an act."

"An act?"

"Please, I've seen how you are around Finn. Contrary to the ice queen facade you seem determined to portray to the world and its mother, you care. And not just about him. You care, Quinn, even if you won't admit it."

She paused midway through placing the dress back on the rail and he saw her jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.

"I'm not strong like you," she'd said in a quiet, even voice. "You don't care what anyone thinks of you, you're just yourself, and you don't know how much I envy that. But I'm not you, and I'm just doing what I have to to get out of this cow town."

She'd stared at him intensely for a moment, but then it broke and she went back to perusing the rails of dresses, long and short, plain and patterned. He'd sighed and done the same until finally one dress caught his eye and he'd held it up for her to see.

"What do you think?" he'd asked, and he'd gestured to the powder blue creation. She'd glanced up, eyes alight, and smiled almost ruefully.

"Perfect for an ice queen," she'd said playfully and hurried to try it on, with him following behind carrying a pair of simple heels and an armful of tiaras and other headpieces. She'd caught his eye once before disappearing behind the dressing room curtain.

He remembers that he'd almost told her how strong he knew she could be before that sheet of velvet separated them. He hopes she knows it now.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

She'd been jealous of her, at least a little bit, for as long as she could remember. Jealous of her looks, of her popularity, of her relationship with Finn. Even once a truce had been called, even once they had developed a tentative friendship, it had always been there.

She'd gone to her house once the news about Yale had come through. She'd brought sparkling cider and dark blue balloons. She'd prepared a cheery song-and-dance number as a means of congratulations and she'd even procured a stuffed toy of Handsome Dan, Yale's official bulldog mascot. She'd gone, and she'd hugged her and she'd agreed when her mother spouted tearfully about what a wonderful achievement it was. But her selfishness was still there, and she was still jealous because she had no idea what lay ahead for her, while Quinn's future was set in stone.

How wrong she'd been.

She remembers now a time when Quinn told her she envied her, and she wishes she'd told her not to envy someone as selfish as her because she would do just fine by herself.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

They met when he was four years old. It was his first day at Ms Meadows' preschool and he'd been crying because he didn't like having to wear a patch on his eye. His mommy had said that it was either that or wear glasses until he was twenty, which seemed like an awful long time. He hadn't really talked to anyone all morning, not even Ms Meadows who was pretty with hair like fire and a kind smile.

Ms Meadows had a small play area in the back garden and at break time they all traipsed outside together. He'd made a beeline for the merry-go-round, because he had a fascination with turning and twisting that meant he spent hours dancing around the kitchen at home, much to his daddy's despair. But after a couple of minutes of enjoyment, the merry-go-round had ground to an abrupt halt and he'd tumbled out and ended up sprawled in the grass with a chubby boy named David and a dark-skinned boy whose name he couldn't remember standing over him, laughing.

"What are you, some sort of pirate?" one of them had sneered- he can't remember which- and the other one had joined in the laughing as he sniffled in the grass. He'd tried to get back up, but David shoved him back down, hard, and when he tried to scramble back towards Ms Meadows the two of them sent him sprawling into the sandpit. They laughed and they looked around and a couple of other kids joined in and he felt tears well up in his eyes.

Then there was a commotion from over by the swing set and a small, clear voice rang out.

"Hey, leave him alone!" She was pretty, a little chubby with two blonde pigtails and a pale pink sundress with matching sandals. She had great posture. She looked like she'd be good at dancing, he thought, and he immediately liked her. But David and the other boy just laughed as she came charging across the grass, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Go back to your Barbie dolls, girlie," David's companion had said, and David had smirked and turned his attention back to the boy in the sandbox. He'd cut his knee and it hurt a lot.

"How come you need a girl to do your dirty work for you, rice boy?" David jeered, and then suddenly the little blonde girl was in his face, her eyes flashing furiously.

"I _said_, leave him alone," she growled and she delivered a swift, sandal-clad kick to his boy parts that saw him drop to the ground sobbing like a baby before being hauled away by his friend, both of them scared stiff. She smiled and turned her attention to him, still sprawled in the sandpit. She stuck out a hand to help him up. "Hi, I'm Lucy."

Their introduction never got any further; David and his friend came running with Ms Meadows and Lucy got put in the time-out chair for a long time. But at lunchtime she came to sit next to him, and she didn't make fun of his chicken-feet salad the way the other kids did. Instead, she just offered him half of her PB&J and asked him when he could take his patch off.

He remembers now that that was the first time he ever felt like he had a friend, and he hopes she knows how much that meant to him, because he's never really been much of a talker.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

So she's a bitch. There's no point in denying it- heck, she doesn't particularly _want_ to deny it. Maybe it comes from being raised in one of the toughest neighbourhoods (and families) in Lima, maybe from years spent learning from Coach Sylvester, or maybe it's just the way she is. Other people's embarrassment and inferiorities amuse her. If she's being honest- and if there's one thing she is, it's honest, sometimes to the point of reducing Berry or Frankenteen to tears- she guesses seeing and making other people feel bad about themselves makes her feel a bit better about her own crappy life.

But, whatever. She knows that people don't like her, and she's managed to convince herself by now that she doesn't care. She knows that her supposed 'friends' only hang around with her because she's a Cheerio. Or because they're terrified of getting on her bad side and figure sucking up will help them to avoid an ass-kicking. The fact is, being a hardcore bitch means that when something bad happens in her life, the only one who cares is Britt. And if Britt's not around... well, she's kinda screwed.

Like that time in sophomore year, at some senior Cheerio's house party. The girl's folks were out of town and the three of them had only just made the squad, so they'd figured they pretty much had to go. Plus, there was a keg and she was definitely down for that.

And it had been fun, for a while. She got plenty of attention from the football players and her tank top made her chest look amazing and she got buzzed pretty quickly. But then Quinn had come sashaying over and she'd giggled and pointed towards the trees at the back of the garden and she'd followed her gaze and she saw a guy's back, broad and jersey-clad, and he was pressing some girl up against the trunk of a tree, hands roaming all over her body, mouth nipping at her long neck. And they'd shifted slightly, falling backwards, and the girl's face moved clear of shadow for a moment and it was Brittany.

And she felt sick to her stomach and suddenly, irrationally, she hated that guy without knowing his damn name. And she wanted to rush over there and rip him away from Brittany and kick him and punch him and scream Spanish swearwords at him for taking advantage of her innocent little but she knew Britt would never talk to her again if she did. So she did the only other thing she could think of.

She strolled over to the keg, downed a cupful of beer and proceeded to make out with the nearest available guy, who turned out to be a chiselled senior basketball player.

Who just so happened to have a toned senior Cheerio girlfriend.

Said toned senior Cheerio had reacted with catlike reflexes and the next thing she knew she was flat on her back with spray tan and hairspray choking her as she writhed futilely. She tried without much success to go all Lima Heights on the bitch's ass, but the girl had two years and six inches in height on her and the most she could manage were a few well-placed kicks and face-scrapes. The chestnut Amazon barely seemed to feel them and she had smirked, tossed her hair and laid into her again with such force that she was pretty sure she felt a rib or six crack. Eventually, once the girl had pulled back, she'd been able to sit up a little, humiliated. And then the bitch punched her lights out.

At least, that was what they'd told her when she woke up in the hospital to find Q flipping through a magazine in the chair next to her cot and shooting nervous glances at her cell phone.

"Oh," she'd said, sounding only mildly interested. "You're awake."

"No shit Sherlock," she'd countered, but the blonde had merely rolled her eyes and crossed her legs demurely.

"Can it, Whiplash. I just saved your ass by giving the doctor a fake name and number so your folks wouldn't find out about your... extracurricular activity."

"Oh," she'd replied, her version of gratitude. "What about the ginger snap?"

The blonde had simply shrugged. "Some of the other girls got her out of there before I drove you to the hospital."

"Doesn't matter, I'll get her again," she'd said dismissively, earning herself a derisive snort. "What? I will!"

"You keep telling yourself that. Just remember that I won't be hauling your ass in here again." The blonde had paused to check her messages, flipped a page of her glossy magazine and raised her knowing hazel gaze to meet that of the patient. "Why don't you tell her?"

"What the hell are you talking about Fabray?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Quinn had said, returning her gaze to her magazine once more. "And I'm willing to bet Britt does too, so don't play dumb. And quit being such a coward."

She remembers now that that was the first time anyone had ever dared to call her a coward, and she wishes she'd listened sooner.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

He reaches into his back pocket, fingers fumbling with the worn leather of his wallet and tossing aside drive-thru and off-license receipts, gum wrappers and one ancient condom until he finds what he's been searching for. A tired smile tugs at his lips. The worn photograph is a blur of pink, skin and blanket, with two matching slumbering faces at its centre

He remembers thinking how much Beth looked like her, and he wishes he'd said that at the time instead of telling her he thought he was going to lose his lunch. He wishes he'd acted more grateful for being allowed to share that moment after all the crap he put her through, and he hopes she knows it really was as special for him as it was for her, regardless of how things ended up playing out.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

Pain.

So much pain.

Burning and then ice.

Screaming.

Her screaming?

Sirens.

More screaming.

Voices, lots of voices.

Someone crying.

Numb.

More voices, closer now.

Still numb.

A name.

Her name?

More voices, not talking though.

Singing.

A twitch.

Still singing.

A cough.

Still singing.

That voice.

Still numb.

Puck?

Light.

Eyes open.

A smile.

Puck singing.

Others singing.

Mom crying.

Singing.

People rushing.

Puck.

Another smile.

_Home._

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**A/N: Sooooo... thoughts?**


End file.
